


So Messed Up, I Want You Here

by soitiswritten (hazyamethyst)



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: ! ! !! !!!! !!!!!, (there’s a 99.9 percent chance he’s the second thing you’re thinking of), A mystery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bit of a self-defeating inner monologue, Blood, I listened to Emilie simon’s while writing this, I’m not that cliché you guys, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Nero is just kind of overwhelmed confused and low-key mad horny, V is…, a bit - Freeform, also he's not the first thing that comes to mind when reading this I promise, but I’m guessing both Nero and V would dig the original by the Stooges a lot more, smooth and sexy and In Control, title is from the song ‘I wanna be your dog’ there are like 297942967 covers of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 17:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18578842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazyamethyst/pseuds/soitiswritten
Summary: To see him kill, it reminds Nero of a heart attack –not flashy in any way, but swift.Gets the job done, leaves you wondering.





	So Messed Up, I Want You Here

**Author's Note:**

> Please check the tags and read responsibly!
> 
> This has been sitting in my laptop for ages, I’m so happy I finally got around to edit it. Top!V has become less of a rarity by now so I’m basically here to keep up the momentum :)
> 
> V recites some bits of poetry throughout this ( because of course he does) by the one and only William Blake.

The lulling aspect of it, he’s never been aware. Though acquainted with the underworld and its hellish creatures, with all cartilage, blood and gore that follow their demise, he’s never made an effort to understand -least of all _appreciate_ \- darkness. Adrenaline, pleasant and human made sense enough, felt appropriate in how it filled his head with a need to power through it all until only a blur of well-earned victories, his, remained.

V is not as easily simplified.

He’s contradiction, an unclear complexity from the moment he appears bringing forth murmurs of poetry and a dead-sharp cane. Flowy hair, sandals, a blush-prone clean complexion. Loaded stare that tickles, pins you up like a worn-out voodoo doll.  Bare chest and limbs showing off tattoos as eye-catching as the loyalty of the vicious demon animals by his side.

Nero is sure of little past the darkness he wears in his skin and clothes, the same he so breezily summons. He can’t help being unnerved by it on principle yet, to himself, he can admit V’s presence puts him oddly at calm. Like a reminder of the brisk night ahead after a long slow summer day or the muffled quiet when your head hits the floor right and you pass out.

It’s the same, in the end, isn’t it? There’s always tells you ignored, before. It creeps up on you, the idea that, for once, you’re at the mercy of things and not the other way around. The sweater won’t do. The arms you extend will give.

Humans need to be a little sick, invariably, to find any true relief.  

And Nero? He, partly-human devil hunter Nero him? He’s no exception, apparently. No, he’s been caught-up in fever dreams where he bleeds out, sliced all nasty and deep in in limbs, punctured in his belly so deep he shivers, and jerks, and spills over a couple of sad cherry red puddles when he tries to crawl his way out with his eyes flickering in and out of focus. His arms, prosthetic and real both, buckle under his own weight too soon for him to even attempt to spot an exit. Fury growing, he clenches his teeth trying to make sense of how he got there, why there’s this deep-bone feel of fatality and _hurt_. He hurts, and coughs, and pants, weak and all-around pathetic, mind blank if throbbing something wild. It’ll leak out too, consciousness, if he doesn’t do something and this is never more clear than when a touch across his side registers with him. He accommodates to it in a daze, hoping for mercy and aid in equal amounts as a hand sweeps over the small of his back and gently scoops him up into something as cool as smooth. Satin, perhaps, it wraps easily around him and presses on his bleeding wounds, soaking the thick liquid partly and leaving the rest contained, safe, as it presses ever tighter, it presses against him until fear has no room to be, until his sight goes finally, his breath quiets, and he’s wholly its.

And the funniest thing yet?

He wakes up to a mild sweat but it isn’t all that uncomfortable, really. No, it feels right and necessary after hours of wreaking havoc nonstop.

Purging.

Nero kind of likes it.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The barrier between dreamscape and reality thins with time, as his exposure to V increases and his want for sleep dwindles in light of the big and new ugly developments regarding Dante. It first happens unexpectedly, he’s stepping out of a vein and expecting demons at the ready to attack him but instead is met with silence and a slightly hunched figure. He wipes at the blood dripping from his brow to do a double take when it sinks on him, he’s sticky with blood and there’s a blur of black in his field of view and _click_ , a curvy cane handle pokes at his chest so an agitated breath can make it out. He curls slightly on it, a base need that surfaces in him, mouth parting with a soundless sigh before a flash of consciousness breaks through the feeble illusion, memories of how he got here come flooding back and it’s very much real, the mission he’s on, V’s gravelly chuckle and the stone that seems to drop heavily in his stomach when he takes a startled step back.

“Tired?” V arches an eyebrow at him, staring steady into his eyes with that characteristic intensity of his.

“You asking _me_? Not in a million years.” He sucks in a breath, then lets his lips tug up into a smirk to try and diffuse the charged tension that hangs in the- air like some cloying old lady perfume. “Gotta say, though. Last time I checked, you’re not supposed to be here.”

A shrug in reply to his tsk. A wisp of a smirk, smooth leather lapels gliding with the momentum of an unhurried turn. “Ah, but I can.”

“Look, V.” Nero starts walking up to him, not too keen on speaking to a back, no matter how lean and- yeah, _no_. “I don’t know what your game is but if you’re here to help then don’t get in my way, okay? _You_ got Dante into this mess, _I_ am getting him out.”

“Don’t worry.” Nero trots right past him, set on getting this over with already. There’s no time to lose, overthink or be vague. He can’t fail Dante, there’s no way around it. He won’t.

“You’ll stop hiding in time, little bird.”

_Little bird._

_Little._

_Bird._

Is it a joke on his height? On his calculated jumping around?

_Little bird._ It echoes in his mind on and off for days, a pleasant low rumble.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The second time is, for lack of a better term, messy. He’s lounging in Nico’s van, taking stock of his guns, devil breakers and sword when V returns from patrol duty, slinking in wordlessly and plopping down on the couch opposite from him. Shadow materializes in the process and settles squarely across his stomach, right where V’s sleeveless leather coat falls open. Loose, that it clearly is, the corset-like little vest with the sleek strings that try to fasten the garment somewhat. How’s fighting with that comfortable at all? Magenta eyes shoot Nero a plain hostile look in warning, before blinking shut like his master’s.

A bit of an overkill, no? He’s tired as fuck too. 

Nero snorts out loud, half-amusement, half-misery just as V, cane in hand, pats Shadow’s head a couple of times before falling limp by his side again, the brief action seemingly enough to set off a loud purring that instantly pisses Nico off for some reason.

And god is she vocal about it.

Nero questions her on it as he resumes his examination of this hot new so-called ‘ragtime’ devil breaker. The short of it? She got bitten once as a child by a stray kitten. It got infected and she almost lost a finger. She’s fiercely protective of her little finger.

“So, yeah, big surprise, I ain’t much of a cat person! But, okay, business is business. I can make exceptions… but this boy here? He’s pushing it. Strolls in with that damn thing on his tail all the time, a wild demon animal! The least it can do is be silent, right?!”

“I don’t think it’s annoying.” Nero offers, eyes flicking to the majestic creature in honest consideration. He’s feeling like being a dick, too. “Nah, your smoking takes the cake. We put up with it all the time too, y’know?”

“We? Liar. He ain’t complaining nothing about my smoking!”

He smiles up at her. “You think people just wave a hand at the smoke because they like it?”

“You’ve to be making this shit up on the fly. When did he do that?! I ain’t seen it, I ain’t buying it! Sides, a li’l heads up: this is _my_ van. My van, my rules, baby. Y’all free to leave anytime.”

“Duly noted.” Nero holds his hands up and laughs at how she nods back with a _hmph_ and stomps back to her workplace, face scrunched up comically and gloved hands cupped over his ears.

Nero shakes his head, letting the calm quiet sink in as he chances a look at V and Shadow. Tattoos dry in place and paws hidden into thighs, chests (medium and small) raising and falling with rhythmic puffs of breath, in and out.

A fairly nonthreatening sight to witness, Nero confirms his decision to stay where he is and place his focus whole on his work again. He works unperturbed for an hour, reaching the last piece of weaponry, his ever trusty Red Queen. It doesn’t require much maintenance, being demonic in nature and all, but he still looks around for a coarse rag (no, his sweater doesn’t count as one, Nico.) and does his best to polish it with long, careful strokes.

With night falling and the fluorescent lamps flickering badly inside, he can’t see all too well and his best intentions to be neat, thorough and professional shatter as swiftly as his hand fails to be, to not slip to the side and allow a squishy fingertip to run over the smooth, freshly sharpened blade. The result?  A clean little slit across his pointer finger he barely even feels. Blood surges in fat little dollops, but only when his thumbs squeeze the skin around it. It verges on laughable, really, his big-ass sword making such a delicate, silly damage on its own wielder. He holds the hurt finger up to inspect it better but his gaze zeroes in on V instead- Shadow, more precisely. Awake and alert, the demon animal stares at him pointedly but a lot less critically than he did before. He flicks his tail back and forth animatedly, over V’s bare shoulder and the leather cushions, then right to the wide armrest, then back to V. It’s such a clean-cut motion, it calls to something anxious inside of him, something sudden and helpless and before the thought of it can be more than half-formed his limbs are moving and he feels a distinct wetness in his hand, like something insanely blunt got stuck in it, but not deep enough, not quite at the right angle, but he can help it. Of course he can, back and forth, he can be good too. Obedient, way more than he lets on. Quiet and giving, loyal and good. A little guidance is all it’d take, a humbling touch where he’s the most lacking, the leftover little portion of his human arm, only a dumb stump when he runs out of devil breakers. No amount of overacting, no overreaching power or fantastic kill works, he’s at his deadliest but also painfully adrift, he’s sick with needs he can only repress, swallow and pretend they’ll go away, be kind enough not to consume him. Bloodlust, he’s sick with it. He’s sick, sick, _sick_.

“Easy.”

_Easy._

_Little Bird._

“How pretty, isn’t it? To taste excess, be on the brink of complete loss.” Fingers ghost over his twitching arm, a feather-light touch. Flesh on flesh. “Resisting made it worse on you, spilled all over like an amateur on their first sacrifice.”

Faint, the voice is anything but yet the words turn to butter in his muddy brain. “This is not quite it, though. Are you afraid your body’s turned on you, Nero?”

Bo-dy? His?

Right, his _body_. He barely can feel anything aside from where V touches him, just slightly above from where he’s pouring what he shouldn’t, especially being a Sparda descendant. Dante would rather kill him than have him do something this stupid, he’s well aware. But Dante isn’t here, V is. No mockery of dead weight, no disappointment or sudden betrayal. Just a question he freely adds more to: What’s there to fear at all, now? V holds him. Pretty words, all the ones he speaks. They envelop him, make him honest. Breath hitching, Nero shakes his head.

“No.”

A pause.

A thumb rubbing into the sweaty warmth of his neck.

Skin that sears, touched.

“Good, because it did. Put you to my mercy in the sweetest, fastest way it could.”

Nero whistles, feeling slightly manic with his field of vision still swimming in a blur of greys and browns and the odd white slash of light.  “Sounds bad.”

“Do not fret, I won’t harm you. Your mind will clear and you’ll come to accept the way of things, little bird.”

Hand coming down over his forefront, he shudders. A deep darkness gains on his vision, fast and warm and all-encompassing as his heart speeds up in anticipation. He goes to it willingly. It wants him to.

It wants _him_.

“Until then, sleep.”

.

.

.

.   

.

.

He wakes up with a start, courtesy of Nico’s van hitting a bump in the road. Groaning, he sits up, and pulls away the colorful floral quilt thrown over his body. It’s hot as balls, why would he…? Oh.

_Oh._

Memories of his activities pre-nap come flooding back and he stills. There wasn’t a nap in his plans, no V or blood either. But that has to be the logical explanation, right? He smiles at the ceiling, spine straightening and a single bead of sweat rolling down his forefront, then cheek. “Please,” he mutters, “not this again.”

_Please._

With a quick turn of his head, he darts his mildly damp eyes over to what he’s so far affectionately dubbed his ‘good arm’. A heartfelt sigh leaves him at the sight. There it is, just as he remembers it: whole and unscathed, not a single scratch on his palm or traces of irremediable damage. Feeling, that it lacks, but Nero is already acting to remedy it with a few well-placed pinches. A tingling static follows, then full control that allows him to clench and unclench his fist in trial. Tears, fat and silly, drop cleanly down from his unblinking eyes as he watches and inwardly thanks everyone and anyone, human, demon or unidentified entity. He’s grateful.

_It was just all just a dream._

One more, what difference does it make?

Another absolutely fucked up dream featuring what he’s always known to be…well, V. It must be the mystery, he reasons, the not knowing that sends his imagination soaring off in ways he cannot consciously make fully sense of. Absurd, from beginning to end, the idea he’d ever willingly self-harm. He kicks demon’s asses for a living, okay? He’s not some fucking wimp that’s shitting himself in his pants and hopeless about what’s to come. No, he’s out there, getting in the thick of it so the future is a little less bleak. More than ever now, he can’t afford the luxury of what-ifs and perhaps. Sure, there’s no ignoring that something has been steadily festering inside him, only recently finding an outlet in the shape of vivid dreams, but that’s where he must draw the line. Insomnia and avoiding V would be a little price to pay when the lives of millions of people are at stake. With Urizen on the loose and Dante out of commission there’s hardly any room for self-questioning. A few tongue-in-cheek rehearsed taunts and some brand new finishing moves give him personality enough. It’s fine, serves the greater purpose of not failing. He cannot fail.

Really, it’s not an option.

A tap on his leg stops its bouncing. It’s a cane’s handle, V’s. He’s never paid much attention to it but from up close the metalwork is sharp, no jaded edges to the harmonious curlicues or ripple-like scallops. Nero’s eyes dance over the weapon, curious, until he reaches its other end and comes to face V. He’s near, a moderate distance away so that if silent Nero would have missed him. Griffon and Shadow are nowhere to be seen, he notes, too, but the quilt he kicked off just moments ago is folded neatly on V’s lap, or rather sliding from it thanks to the bent leg he has resting on its side over the couch. Body angled just slightly to him, elbow on the backrest so his head up is propped up on his hand, he still has a prim air about him. A solid sense of self-possession that exceeds his summoner status, it’s embedded deep yet so glaringly obvious, a bit like that lone amulet wrapped tight around his throat swings only minutely with the van’s ungodly speeding and wild turns.

“How are you feeling, Nero?”

_Lulled like prey when you speak, V._

_And you don’t speak nearly enough._

Nero’s leg threatens to start bouncing again but is promptly stilled by a firmer press of the cane. Electricity shoots up his spine at the constraint he lets be, at the portion of will he lets dry up and die at V’s delicate, ever-bloodless hands. He deflates with a sigh, trying to cook up an answer that won’t give away too much about how scattered his mind truly feels.

“I wasn’t here.” He blurts, pretty sure by now this is where V had fallen asleep, not him.

“A keen observation.” V hums, glance sliding over to the couch opposite. “I did move you over.”

He snorts. “That can’t be-”

“Right? But it was.”

“What’d you mean?”

“I’d to clean up your mess, clearly. It’d look more like murder than ceremony to outsiders otherwise.” V’s lips stretch into a lopsided smirk. “My doing. And we can’t have that now.”

“Yeah, okay.” Nero smiles right back- a wide, awful fake thing. “Yeah. I’m not sure I follow.”

“ _Excessive sorrow laughs. Excessive joy weeps.”_  V recites, the lilt to his voice thick like caramel that’s mere seconds away from getting burned. It calls for it, though, the carefully picked words tumbling forward in affected utterances. Lips moving almost in a coo, it’s adds a certain magic to it, he’s found. And V is nothing if not magical, right before his eyes, tattoos fading and going up in little black sparks floating about him as he slides calmly towards him on a coordinated upsurge of them. Close, too close now, V lifts a hand to and brush the back of a finger over his cheek, smudging a still damp tear track. “Begs the question, then: what bleeds?”

Nero tenses, a wire pulled taut.

“You really can’t help it, can you? All that precious Sparda blood and you’re still affected worse than most. ”

He doesn’t sound teasing, but ominously serious. Thoughful in a dejected sort of way. Nero bats the hand away, inexplicably flustered at the simple touch and the idea he’s in some way underperforming by not living up to his bloodline and failing in some unclear crucial way. V is often unapologetically vague but also far from dumb, and his perceptions have proved to be time and time again nothing short of impeccable. All things considered, he sure is glad to have him around, to not be alone in this damned timeline where Dante could be on his deathbed and he’s missing an arm and Kyrie left, too scared, a sane and good girl that’ll survive but he? He goes through the motions and hopes for the best, lies and smiles and ever since hasn’t once flinched, blinked or cracked in the ugly garish face of fate.

Its touch has never again been gentle enough for him to, to see its murmurs of the future assuring, to regards its promises anything other than empty and breakable. Mirages, that’s all there’s to it.  

It won’t ever give him any security that what it takes it’ll give back.

Unlike pacts, nothing about it binds.

How could it, so bloodless?

There’s no way.

“Nero,” A hand pats lightly at his cheek, seemingly undeterred by his previous shooing of it. Did it even leave at all? Its touch lingers, lazily, long beringed fingers that press and trace angles not that they couldn’t just as well cover half his face easily if they wanted to. Scrape instead of slide down, and up, and down to tilt his jaw up and hold it there. “You can show me.”

The third time, he chooses to welcome it. To favor what feels natural over that nagging urge to question why. _Why_ ruins, justifies fate’s whims obsessively like some loyal brainless addict. He’s better, far better, in the dark for now, accepting the faint _pop_ he hears coming from his nose the moment he squishes it against the side of V’s palm like finesse is going out of style and _in_ only is the sudden wetness that quickly materializes as a rush of lukewarm blood tickling down and past his lips, chin, then dropping off the edge of his jawline. Under V’s unwavering gaze, stormy and electric, he’s unsure if he should loll his head back and have blood drip safely into his throat, just like he did as a kid, too blond. There’s not nearly enough innocence to this, though. No delicacy to the relief he almost violently seeks, growing brasher and more vicious by the minute.

As it turns out, V is far from appalled. His hand curls on Nero’s neck as it angles his head lower, low to where his own shadow falls on him like a broad cloak, to where he can draw closer, align his mouth to his properly, and then?

Taste it.

_Him._

V gives calculated licks, tongue plush and precise as it drags along the seam of his closed lips, then pokes at it softly. His stunned stillness is met with a brief retreat, a batting of thick catty lashes as V waits for more drops to join the fray. He’s unhurried, clearly so, caresses his nape idly and all-around acts like Nero isn’t reeling, sticky with his spit and tense with a primal need of more, of either the bite or the hiss, as if he isn’t shaking in his hold with what’s got to be flames surging up in his body and steadily filling up his belly with smoke and ashes, a little tomb that’ll suffocate him and he can’t even look, eyes scrunched shut even when he’d rather see. If death’s looking back, if it’s all been in vain.

Fooled by some elaborate pretty trick that’ll off him for good.

_Poof._

_Bye sucker._

_Died sick and feverish, in the arms of the most striking man he’s ever seen (a small mercy)._

But _no._

Not quite.

He can breathe.

Mouth parted, a tongue slips in along with the sweet reprieve of air that has oxygen rushing to his lungs, once, the beginning of a leisurely kiss that’ll be make sure his chest doesn’t stay puffed out long with what’s lent, get greedy. There’s a subduing edge to how V handles intimacy Nero finds out, when the other makes a quick job of handling him, like he’s not a goddamn demon hunter that could cut off the hands that grip him by the hips in a blink, like he couldn’t break free as he’s moved and settled simply like some frail virgin girl on his lap, V’s nimble hands promptly hiking up his sweater and t-shirt as they climb up and press him to his chest and yes, _fuck_. It’s addicting, to be sheltered from danger while deftly courted by it. Aren’t they all supposed to be one and the same? He comes to gather his wits enough to press his lips back against the ones that kissed him, to tangle his tongue with V’s then keen when his own is nibbled and suck lightly at. V grumbles back a low pant when he attempts to reciprocate, eager hands flying to the other’s shoulders to prop himself up, tower over him and give back and more but V pulls back and pushes down on his rock-hard thighs.

He crumbles to the sound of some praise, felt and mellow still he feels his stomach curl with fierce unbridled want, legs pressing on the outer side of the slim thighs that he’s back on, a full weight perch that’s more helpless that obedient at this point.

Expectant, he follows the slow drag of V’s eyes over his body. There’s not that much to see or size up, he’s hardly taken a shower in days, but the sharp arch of V’s eyebrow unveils a pesky feeling of unease he’d much rather leave in the battlefield.

“You thought yourself well above, didn’t you? How human, to believe in self-control and absolutes. There are personal priorities that grand circumstances try to skew the value of, and it’s only logical to allow it, isn’t it? It feels more appropriate that way. To brush off what bothers inside, thinking it’ll vanish.” V says, tone raspy if vaguely playful. His hands pat his legs all the same, even give some placating shallow caresses. “Flesh isn’t complacent, once unsettled. Unlike thoughts, it’s seen and it feels. It can glow, worry-free with good fortune, as much as wear pain all over and broadcast need.”

“Hmmhm.”

“Open your eyes, Nero.”

_Wait, he closed them?_

Surprise aside, Nero jolts at the urgency that grips him to do as told, and the feeling of pure relief when he does, squinting open eyes that are bleary with unbidden tears he can’t blink away fast enough before his nose is bumped into and V’s lips are on his again, tongue prodding and exploring and finally he can see, the hooded eyes, staring squarely back, almost daring. It’s all the confirmation he needs, instinct kicks in, some wild unknown part of him that drives him to suck on V’s lower lip, a wet soft thing, plump with warmth. He bites into it, hard, until he can feel copper in his tongue, a syrupy, delightful thing that makes his toes curl, that has him doing whiny sounds and all-body jerks that feel too good with V’s hands and legs wound around him so tight, so deliciously determined to keep him in place, close to what’s good for him. V, he is good.

Wonder, both the thrill and quiet awe after.

Fingers buried deep in his dark hair, Nero holds on to the anchoring feeling of pleasure. It’s achingly familiar, the headiness to it. It’s wholly new, too, in that V is a man, in that he’s feeling pulled to him like riotous waves to the idle moon. She waits, aloof with the surrounding dead light and debris, until their ebb and flow settles into a dance as they crash and quiet at intervals.  She watches, from afar, relishes in their froth, bubbles and whooshes. Ever faithful and joyful. Pretty and grandiose. Hers.

It’s just how it is, with some things: they click, they’re let be.

Simple.

So stupidly simple.

_What are you V?_

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 coming soon-ish!
> 
> Comment/ kudos make my day :D
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
